


Just a flower in a windowbox

by Sand_Cursive



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-01-26 10:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/Sand_Cursive
Summary: Domestic Au. If MC went back for them





	1. Chapter 1

Lights flicker from torches on the wall. Dramatic, a little bit medieval and more than a little bit disconcerting. She walks you down the twisting stairs into a room with stone walls and the glint of metal bars visible before you even reach the bottom. A dungeon. A dungeon?

You don’t understand until he comes into view and you can recognize his face, sweating and pale though it is. V. They’ve literally caged him, locked him up like a prisoner and the idea is so alarming that you would laugh if he didn’t look on the edge of death.

“They gave him too much,” she says, and she sounds disappointed but unconcerned and you can feel the blood in your veins turn to ice. She walks up to the bars to gloat, you think, and the pounding in your ears is getting loud and you can see his lips moving, but barely and you have no idea what he’s saying but. _Let him go, let him go, let him go._ You want to shout, he’s dying can’t she see that but. And then he says something about _obsession_ and oh, she doesn’t like that at all she’s screaming and crying and oh. She’s crying.

It’s strange that you feel this strange tug of sympathy for someone who’s been so cruel.

Someone with a tuft of red hair bursts in and you don’t know who it is, just help lift V up and away from her, help him carry the poor man away. You look back and she’s shaking on the floor, screaming and crying and heartbroken over a half-remembered nightmare and you want to go back even if you can’t say why. You want to wipe her tears and hug her and tell her that she was loved. That she is loved. You want to let her know that you’ll be back.

Because how can you leave her, after all this? It’s only been a day but a day is so long and you have seen the darkness, the hollowness that rests inside her and you know she’s dangerous and damaged but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be left here, on her own, to play god within her twisted castle and try to fix herself. She doesn’t know what she’s doing and maybe you don’t either but you think you could figure it out together, with some help.

You can still hear her crying as you sprint away, V weak and paling on Seven’s back.

* * *

 

You wander aimlessly from the safe house, letting the cool night air wash out the heavy heat of V’s cooling fever. A deep breath in, savoring the crisp, fresh scent of the outdoors. Just behind you is the warm glow of the cabin’s light, peering dauntlessly through curtained windows.

V is doing much better, now. He’s taken a few brief sojourns outside, letting his head cool, getting his strength back. _Thank God._

You press your phone firmly into your palm and let out a sigh. You don’t know the way back.

You’d been so preoccupied when you’d taken him, shaking and barely conscious, piling haphazardly into Seven’s car. Guilt dragged your eyes and your hands to his face, wiping his hair from his brow and praying that he would be alright. How could you not spend your every waking moment trying to measure his pulse, his breaths? His health had only so declined for concern of you, and you hadn’t made your decision fast enough. If you were going to stay, if you were going to choose them anyway, you should have told him not to risk himself to rescue you. And now, here he was, laid out on your lap shaking and shivering and so, so cold.

Vanderwood had been a blessing. You don’t think you could have guessed what to do on your own, so having him apply medicines and ointments and care had been a weight lifted undeservedly from your shoulders. You had sat by their sides, legs beneath you, voice quiet as they had done their best and you had felt something strong and stirring waking in your stomach. You gave him your hand and your quiet reassurances and tried to let him feel like you hadn’t been a wasted effort.

Of course, you didn’t remember the way back.

You start at the sound of the door opening and turn, only to see V silhouetted in the doorway. He looks tired, still, but he offers you a wan smile and the return of color to his face. You smile, hesitant, and go up to him to take his arm.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he says, still whisper-quiet, so you support him as best you can and take your steps out into the night together. There is something different about the way he carries himself. He seems contemplative, not weak, so you walk beside him quietly and let him gather his thoughts. You are afraid, a little, of what he might say. He is kind, _too kind,_ and you feel something powerful and heavy approaching and how can you listen to his heart, to his words and still know you’ll leave him in the end?

“I wanted to say thank you . . .” he starts, and you don’t know what to say so you stay quiet. You want to hear him and you don’t and nothing you can imagine would properly help you express that and he’s pouring his heart out to you and you can understand him so much better now but. He closes his eyes and you hear a sharp sigh before he asks you to leave him. You’re dubious _can you stand on your own?_ but you let him have his thoughts so you can have yours.

You walk back to the cabin alone, and you wait.

For too long.

You go out looking for him, panic constricting your throat. He isn’t answering your calls, your texts, and you don’t know what’s happened to him but it can’t be good. Seven is with you, flashlight in hand, calling frantically into the thick silence of the country night. When you finally find him all the blood drains out of your face and you drop to your knees beside him, letting dirt and blood coat the pristine white of your skirt.

It doesn’t take a detective to work out what’s happened. One of _them_ (and it’s Rika, it’s Ray, who else could it be, who else feels so thickly and poisonous that they’d make the trek out here to find him, to hurt him) found him in the woods in the dark and you look at his face and feel unbearable guilt clawing it’s way across your heart for the second time in as many days. You never should have left him alone.

Maybe if you’d been there you could have helped. Could have embraced them and told them you were going back with them, could have set out your terms _leave him alone leave **them** alone_ could have taken their knife and their violence and their anger and turned it back with you towards the cult.

You never should have left him alone.

Tears obscure your vision and his head is on your lap again, riding at breakneck speeds in the back of Seven’s car and you’re trying to watch him and the road all at once (you need to remember you need to _remember_ ) and your hands are carefully cradling his head and you’re trying so hard to keep him awake and. He doesn’t deserve this.

You get him to the hospital and you wait anxiously, hands dyed red with his blood and your heart wrings itself into knots and you think _he doesn’t deserve this he didn’t deserve this_. Your hands are clasped when they come out to get you but you don’t remember praying.

“How is he?” You ask, desperation lacing your words, but they shake their heads and say _We’ll have to see_.

You wait by his bedside and hold his hand and try not to shake with fear and guilt. The phone call snaps you out of your catatonia only long enough for the shaking to come back, multiplied. Ray. That was a goodbye.

You are a normal girl. You’ve worked at your office for the past two years, you have an apartment downtown with a small balcony. You go out every Friday night with your coworkers for drinks and occasional karaoke. You have loved and lost, dated and dumped, but you have never felt this kind of heartbreak before. You think the stress of it might land you in a bed right next to him, hooked up to wires and blissfully unconscious.

But that is not good enough. He has sacrificed so much to keep you safe and Ray has done so much to try to make you smile and while his methods haven’t been the best you won’t let him drown in this kind of despair. You lean over and kiss V’s forehead, caress his hand and whisper _sorry_ and your heart breaks because you’re leaving him and you know you can’t come back. _He deserves better_ , you think, but there are tears gathering in your eyes anyway because it’s so hard to say goodbye and you care about him _so much_ and you know that the life you’re choosing isn’t a life he can be part of.

He’s suffered enough for a thousand lifetimes.

You call a nurse over and leave a phone number for her to call when he wakes up. Then you go outside and grab a taxi.

* * *

 

You only remember up to the safe house, so you’re stuck wandering idly in brush and forest for longer than you’d like to be. He finally picks up your call when you can make out the walls of the compound, bright against the encroaching night.

“Ray!” You almost sob with relief to hear him. His voice is so calm, far too calm, and the blood in your veins turns colder than it ever has before. “Listen,” you try, desperate and pleading, “listen.” And you rattle off an address. You can hear the confusion in his voice when he asks you what it is. “It’s my address. You can come stay with me. You and Rika can stay with me whenever you like. If things get too hard or you don’t have anywhere else to go, you can stay with me. I’m right outside Mint Eye right now, I’m right outside I brought you a key.”

The compound is eerily desolate and a shiver runs up your spine. He sounds panicked for the first time in this call. “You’re outside?”

“I can’t get in,” you say, and you pound on the door for emphasis. No one comes running, there are no sounds at all, and you can hear something high and crazed in his voice when he says, “Where are you?”

“I’m outside?” you respond, but now you’re panicking too, and suddenly there’s a barrage of footsteps and the door is thrown open so forcefully you’re knocked backwards onto your seat. Moonlight illuminates his hair in a beautiful halo and you think, deliriously, _he looks like an angel_ , before he’s grabbing your arm and pulling you as far away from the compound as fast as he can.

“What are you doing?” you try, but your words are ripped away from you, you’re running so fast and all you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears and your shoes pounding on the forest path and suddenly there’s a blast of heat from behind you and you want to twist and see but he pulls you even harder and you trip. He throws himself on top of you as chunks of debris rain down from the sky, still flaming, and in your panic you struggle underneath him but he’s so much stronger than he looks.

When things are finally quiet _a minute? ten?_ he lets you push him off and you catch the wince on his face as he moves. Alarmed, you sit up and rip his jacket off him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he tries, but it comes out in a whine, so you shuffle until you can see his back and _oh_. There is a dark black hole in his shirt (and his jacket, you realize, as you idly finger the fabric). The exposed skin is charred and blistered and it doesn’t look good but it doesn’t look beyond hope either, so you cross your fingers and close your eyes and say a quick prayer before you take his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and you mean it, you really do, “but we can’t stay here. Can you move?” And he nods and stands, (heartbreakingly, _achingly_ slowly) and you let him lead you down a side path, a treacherous back road down the mountains.

There’s a sudden running, pounding of feet, and a dozen people dressed in black thunder up the path six times at least on your way. He always pulls you low, sharp and fast and you can see the pain twisting on his face but he stays silent. As soon as they leave you put a palm on his cheek and watch him carefully, but he gives you a troubled smile so you follow him back down again.

It is dark and you are exhausted by the time you reach the foot. The road stretches out before you and you’re so tired and you don’t know what else to do so you call a cab to come pick you up. You want to go to sleep but the chatroom buzzes and as you follow this new line of conversation you sigh and ask the driver to make a stop on the way.

* * *

 

You open the door awkwardly, Ray propped between the two of you as you fumble with your keys in the dark. It had taken an agonizing twenty minutes with Ray ashen faced and panting beside you to convince Rika to leave her apartment with the two of you.

The cab driver had taken it in stride when the blonde had dropped into the backseat with you, not questioning the increasingly laboured breathing of the white haired man even after he had left you at your building. You’d given him his payment and a generous tip for his lack of curiosity, and then waited, exhausted, in the lobby for an elevator to appear.

Now you stood with two guests in an apartment that had never felt small until now, and wondered what you were going to do.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s an agonized groan from the pull-out couch. You rush over, a clean washcloth with ice water in your hand. You’d taken turns with Rika, sleeping in shifts so someone would always be awake to tend to Ray’s burns. He’s starting to get a fever though, and you’re worried. You can only do so much.

When he shivers and throws up water into the bucket on the floor, you stand. “We have to take him to a hospital,” you announce, starting to feel the strain clawing it’s way under your skin. Rika bolts upright from a dead sleep and stares you in the eye. “No hospitals.”

“Rika,” you whisper, pulling her away from him, “he’s not getting any better. He needs antibiotics. He needs a doctor.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but another low moan has her glancing back at the patient, worrying her lower lip. “Fine. A doctor.” She shakes her head then, presses a fist to her temple and groans. “All the files . . . I knew a doctor who we could call, but all his contact information is at my apartment.”

“Let’s go get it!” You say, your leg tapping, restless.

She frowns, won’t look at you. “We can’t. All the information at my apartment was destroyed.”

You frown back, and you would scold but you have bigger problems. Ray is shaking on your couch and sweat is beading his brow and if something happens to him, after all of this— You close your eyes when your ringtone bleats out across the silence. You drop slowly to pick up your phone, and press answer without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?” you ask, exhaustion seeping into your voice.

“Hello, I was given this number in the event of a patient, Jihyun Kim, waking up?”

Your eyes fly open, back straightening. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s awake, talking, eating a little. His condition is stable, and he’s ready to receive visitors.”

Tears are coursing down your cheeks and you make no move to brush them away. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much. If you. . . . If you could, would you mind telling him something from me? Just. Just that I’m so glad that he’s okay. And. And that I care about him very much.”

She makes a bemused sound. “You can tell him yourself.”

“I wish I could,” you say, and before she says anything else you hang up. You drop your head to your knees and draw a shaking, shuddering breath. Rika is hovering behind you, hesitant, and places a hand on your shoulder. You reach up and take it.

“V’s okay,” you breathe out, shuddering. “He’s going to be alright.”

She hiccups a little and you realize she’s crying too, and you’re both crying and so grateful and she sinks to the floor next to you and you wrap your arms around her and you’re so ready to just sit there and wait for the relief to subside but. There’s a hacking sound from the couch and you shoot up immediately, upending Rika and letting her sprawl carelessly on the floor. “Ray! Ray are you okay?” you warble, crossing over to him and pushing his hair out of his face.

He coughs weakly, and you can tell he can’t see you, not really, and panic easily overtakes the relief in your heart. You clutch your phone, desperate to figure something out when you remember. The doctor! Jumin had put up his personal, _discrete_ doctor as a potential guest, and you had his contact information. But . . . your heart drops. There’s no way you can afford a corporate CEO’s _personal_ doctor.

You let out a little desperate cry, and Rika looks up at you. “What are we going to do?” you whisper. “We can’t afford a private doctor.”

She looks at the floor and rings her hands. “I. I might have some money,” she says. “I think I can get enough for the doctor.”

“Are you sure?”

She looks at you then, at Ray lying prone on the couch, at the sweat on his brow, at the desperation in your eyes. She nods, resolutely. “Yes. I can get it. Just tell me how much.”

You just about sag with relief, and start a very hurried email. It’s slapdash, with spelling mistakes and awful grammar (a feat for something that’s barely three sentences), but you double check your address before sending it off. Then you wait.

You and Rika worry by Ray’s side for two hours before he sends his reply, letting you know his rates and that he’ll be arriving within the next three hours. You show the price to Rika and she doesn’t even bat an eye before borrowing a jacket and a purse from your closet. “I’ll be back soon,” she promises, and you nod and hand off the copy of your key that you never had a chance to give the man lying in front of you.

She’s back right as the doctor arrives, letting him step in ahead of her. You lift your head from a restless sleep, blinking owlishly in the light. The man immediately comes to the patient on the couch, and you do your best to answer his questions but you’re just so tired. Rika fills him in when she can, and when you ask her if she got the money she nods, her face grim. You are too tired to ask.

You need to sleep but you’re too worried, so you collapse into an armchair by the sofa and watch through tired eyes. The doctor prods Ray, applies a salve to his burn that makes him hiss through his teeth, bandages him, takes blood and provides an injection. He gives Rika a detailed list of medications and instructions for changing the bandages and promises to return within a few days to check his progress. When she hands him an envelope fat with cash, he doesn’t raise a brow.

You take a look at his instructions as she shows him to the door, reading them once, twice, dilligently trying to commit them to memory before you give up and take a picture with your phone. Then, you turn your head to the side and fall immediately into a deep and troubled sleep.

* * *

 

When you wake it’s still dark outside, _early morning_ , and you rub a tired hand across your eyes. Rika is asleep on the floor beside the couch, arms cushioning her head. You smile and go to your room, grabbing a pillow and your blanket from the bed. She doesn’t wake when you fit the pillow beneath her head, and snuggles beneath the blanket as you lay it on her. You’re about to go back to your room when you realize that Ray’s awake.

“Ray!” you whisper, dropping instantly to his side. He gives you a tired smile, and you nearly cry with relief.

“Hello, princess.”

Your hand immediately goes to brush the hair out of his eyes. His hand shoots up to grab it, and you make a choked little noise in the back of your throat. “How are you?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he says, weak, and brings your hand to his face. You watch him carefully. “I promised,” you say, and he nods just a little.

“Yes.” His eyes are bright even in the darkness. “You did.”

* * *

 

He gets better remarkably quickly, after that. The doctor returns for two more visits before he pronounces the patient to be in ‘reasonably good shape’, with instructions on changing his dressings and a phone number where he can be reached. He states his intention for a final check-up within two months, then offers a quiet smile before he leaves.

Ray is moved from the couch to your bedroom after the first three days, with you and Rika taking turns to change the sheets. The couch is cleaned, and the two of you take turns alternately sleeping in the living room or sleeping in the cot that you’ve placed beside your bed. After a week, the infection is gone and you put the cot away altogether.

You think, vaguely, that if there had been more time to hem and haw it might have been more awkward managing the sleeping arrangements. However, emergency pushed propriety out the window and now sleeping together seems like nothing more than a natural progression. There’s no guest room, only the couch and your bed, and you alternate sleeping with either Rika or Ray.

Ray gets better, Rika smiles more, and you go back to work.

The season starts to change.

* * *

 

You give Ray your balcony. It’s small, and there isn’t much room for anything larger than a small chair and a table, but you stop by a nursery on your way home from work and buy him some window boxes that he can hang on the railing. His eyes light up when he sees them, and you take him with you on Sunday to pick out whichever flowers he wants to plant.

He spends a lot of time out there. Some days you can come home and find him sitting there on the single chair, idly watching the skies.

“It’s peaceful,” he says, once, when he catches you watching. You step out with him, squeezed beside the table before he pulls you onto his lap. “I like the way the sky looks. So quiet, in the middle of the day. Like a dream.”

You shift your head onto his shoulder. “What’s the dream about?”

He hums softly. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s more of a feeling, that I get.”

“And what’s the feeling?” you pursue, curious.

He fidgets a little bit, lifts a hand to run long fingers through your hair. You know they’re stained with dirt but you don’t move to stop him. He mumbles something and you’re right by his mouth and still don’t catch it. You lift your head but he doesn’t look down at you. “What?”

He’s quiet for a second longer. “Home.”

You can’t stop a giddy smile from fighting its way onto your face, so you drop your head back on his shoulder, ducking low so he can’t see it. You lift a hand instead and trace the edges of one window box. None of his flowers have sprouted yet.

* * *

 

 Rika learns to cook. It’s not a skill she exercised much before, but she is learning to enjoy the diversion. She burns things to start, and three pans need to be retired, but she’s getting better. On particularly good days, she and Ray will be in the kitchen before you wake, and he will teach her simple recipes before they serve you breakfast.

 

You ask her why one morning, when Ray is still sleeping, and the kitchen feels starkly quiet with only the two of you puttering around in it. Your hand is searching blindly in the cupboard for coffee while her back is to you, occupied with the stove. The subtle sounds of oil frying make up your background music.

“Why am I cooking?” she parrots back at you, surprised. “To make you breakfast, of course.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, nearly tripping backwards with the bag of grounds. “I can cook for myself.”

She laughs, and it’s light and musical and so beautiful that you can see the way she must have looked to the rest of the RFA, back when she had been their coordinator and the soul of the organization, the light of their parties. When she is bright, she is so bright. “I know that,” she answers, amusement obvious in the caress of her vowels. “I wanted to. I like it.” She drops an omelet onto a waiting plate. “I’m sorry about those pans though. And the kitchen fire.”

You laugh (because it’s funny, **now** ) and say “I thought the kitchen was going to explode. I’m so glad I have a fire extinguisher.”

“You should be glad we have Ray,” she says, since technically he was the one who put out the fire. You snort indelicately and she laughs again, delighted. “What was _that_?”

“Nothing. Leave me alone,” you say, but you’re smiling and it’s obvious in your voice. She giggles (and it’s so soft, so sweet, so lovely) and says, “Do it again.”

You stick your tongue out and refuse.

* * *

 

* * *

 

You haven’t returned to the RFA chatroom since that canceled party.

The members text you occasionally, just to be sure you’re doing alright. None of them ask you to resume coordinator duties.

V sends you a message, just once. It says _I’m sorry_. You respond with _It’s not your fault._ He never replies.

* * *

 

Things are good, for at least a month.


	3. Chapter 3

There is a skip in your step as your near your door. The lights are on and you can hear the sounds of conversation, sweet and soft. They welcome you, both, with bright eyes and soft smiles, with a table already set for dinner, with a hug or a pat on the head.

He takes your bag and kisses your cheek and your apartment feels warmer than it ever has before.

You sit at the table and eat together every night. Some nights she cooks, some nights he does. Some nights they try to do it together, and the result is often colourful and strange and only sometimes palatable. They are always so proud, though, of what they put on the table that you eat it all anyway.

You smile through every bite and drop food from your plate and Ray rolls his eyes and cleans up after you, even when you tell him he doesn’t have to. The three of you wind up on the couch afterwards, more often than not, with some soapy drama on the television and a drink in your hands (hot chocolate usually). They cuddle close and warm and you don’t mind if you don’t make it to your beds at the end of the night.

* * *

 

It is the first night when he isn’t there to greet you. You slip your shoes off at the door and head straight for the balcony, not yet concerned. It’s been weeks since he’s not met you when you come home.

You pull back the curtain but he isn’t there.

Rika walks over, wiping her hands on the dish towel she’s looped through her apron string. She presses herself against your back in a soft hug, brief and gentle. “Welcome home.”

You place a hand over hers. “Thank you. Where’s Ray?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Oh.” You pause, turning only to watch her walking back to the kitchen. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” she says airily. “Just figuring something out.”

So you put your bag down, wash your hands, grab a drink. It isn’t until you actually sit down that you notice there are only two places set at the table.

“Ray?” You call uncertainly, but she puts a hand over yours.

“How was your day?” she asks, all smiles, sincere interest.

“Isn’t Ray going to eat with us?”

She shakes her head. “Not tonight. How did the meeting go? You seemed really worried about it this morning.”

“It was fine,” you say, forgetting what she’s asked before your lips begin to form the words. “Is Ray okay? Is he sick? Why isn’t he eating?” And maybe it’s paranoia, maybe it is and you wonder that even as your hand rests on the edge of the table, fingertips white. But he was so, so sick and you had been so worried and it isn’t time for the doctor to come back yet and give him a clean bill of health and what if. But she had said he was _fine._

Rika sighs patiently, sitting down with two glasses of something dark and sweet. “I told you, he’s working on something. He doesn’t get to eat until he figures it out,” she says casually, and you stare at her for a moment, uncomprehending. She idly picks up her fork to eat and as she takes a bite something ugly wakes up in you and you frown sharp and angry. He had told you but you hadn’t thought — things have been so _good_ and nice and. What is so important that she thinks she needs to train him back into abuse? She doesn’t notice, and you are frozen in your seat for a second watching, waiting, hoping she will stop and stand and come to her senses. The only thing that happens is a smear of sauce at the corner of her mouth.

You pick up your own plate and bring it to the door, knocking loudly. “What are you doing?” she asks, looking just as confused as Ray does when he opens it. “Ray,” you say, ignoring her, “are you hungry?”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches you with hooded eyes, suspicious, unsure. Your heart shudders in your chest because you’ve never seen that look on him before and you _don’t like it_. You shove the plate at him so he’s forced to take it, and he looks at it and at you and at her in a way that is hungry and desperate and submissive respectively. Oh no, oh _no_ oh **hell** fucking no, this is not something that he needs to have decided for him and you certainly aren’t going to _force_ him to eat but god. Damn.

“He doesn’t have to pay dues for existing,” you tell her, and your frown deepens. “Neither do you.”

She frowns too, more confused than upset, but he takes the plate, and you guide him with you to the table.

“Everyone gets to eat, if they’re hungry,” you say, like the laying of a law, and she shrugs her shoulders tightly and only says, “I didn’t make enough for three.”

* * *

 

 

It is bright and large and you can barely see the soft curl of his mouth over its drooping petals.

“You didn’t have to get that,” he says, sounding bashful and annoyed and pleased all at once. He fingers the leaves gently, reverently, skin barely ghosting on the surface. It’s a flower that you saw him eyeing in the nursery, a week or so ago when you all went together to grab some fertilizer for his plants. It is beautiful and strange and exotic, and even though you’d never seen it before he had immediately known its name.

“Who says it’s for you?” you tease, but you immediately place it in his hands, and he shuffles with it for a moment until he can maneuver enough to effectively brush a kiss against your forehead.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry,” he says, looking contrite, and you giggle and brush the dirt off your blouse.

“It needed a wash anyway,” you say, and it’s not as if you would have gotten mad about it. He fidgets for a moment, indecisive, before he gently puts the pot down on the floor and wipes at your shirt. It’s a valiant effort, and you think it might have helped, if he had just remembered that his hands were also covered in dirt. “Oh no!”

He looks even more upset but you’re full on laughing now, and the crease in his brow twitches once, twice before it’s soothed. You can see the smile rising to the surface, even though there’s a slew of new apologies just waiting on his tongue. Your hand darts up to cover his mouth. “It’s okay.”

You can feel him relaxing, feel the tension draining and then. He kisses your palm.

You gasp and pull away and laugh and he smiles, picks up the pot and walks away and leaves you to your mess. The joke is on him though; your hand was covered in dirt too.

You can hear him spitting on the balcony.

* * *

You walk in the front door to the faintest spill of light coming from your bedroom, and you stub your toe on the single step in the hall.

“Why is it so dark,” you grumble, after a perfectly enunciated curse, before small, soft hands clap themselves over your eyes. Your initial instinct is to scream, to strike out, to flail and roll and _escape_ , but a small whiff of perfume floats up and you can feel a breath of gentle laughter on your ear and you sink reflexively back and let a low groan escape you. “You scared me half to death!”

She tries not to but giggles anyway, and you let the annoyance melt out of you as she leads you carefully forwards (“Watch the step,” _the tease_ ). Warm hands suddenly grab yours and help maneuver you carefully through the minefield of apartment pitfalls that your furniture has become. “What are you doing?” you ask, and your whispered voice sounds too loud in the careful silence.

They don’t say a word. Instead they push you, gently, and you can feel the cushions of the couch against your knees and you let yourself fall back into its faded embrace. “Don’t open your eyes, yet,” she whispers, and suddenly her hands are gone and you feel the rebellious urge to open them, just because, but it’s so dark and anyway they seem so _excited_ and you can hear them rustling around in the kitchen behind you, gently nudging each other and puttering around in the dark. They pad back over, socks shuffling whisper-soft on the hardwood floor, and you bite your lip and try to resist temptation.

There’s a sort of soft _scratch!_ and then something flares dim and orange against your eyelids and you throw your hands up in front of your face because you have to _resist_.

Someone tugs your hands gently away, and he says “Open your eyes,” so _close_ that you shiver, and you open your eyes and—

“It’s not my birthday,” is the first thing that comes out of your mouth, even though you’re sure you meant to say _Thank you_ , instead.

They don’t look the least bit daunted. “We know,” he says, and she beams brighter than the flames. “We wanted to celebrate.”

“Oh,” you say, because you aren’t sure what else to say, really, honestly what are you celebrating and — _oh no_. You stiffen, feel the slow static of anxiety crawl along your skin and whisper, “Wait, whose birthday is it?”

They laugh, and she shifts until she’s sitting just under you, on a cushion she’s pulled onto the floor, until she can reach your arm and stroke it reassuringly. “No one’s. My birthday is November 3rd, and Ray’s is—”

“I don’t celebrate my birthday,” he says flatly, and you frown and reflexively make a sad little noise in the back of your throat and he immediately relaxes. “It’s okay. I just don’t like it.” And that doesn’t really make it that much more okay at _all_ , but they’ve still got such hopeful looks on their faces and there’s a whole cake sitting in front of you with sparklers quietly fizzing and maybe this just isn’t the time to press.

So “What are we celebrating?” you ask instead, and their faces light up against the slowly dimming cake.

“Being together”; “Being happy,” they say at the say time, and you can feel your smile lighting up too. “Being happy together,” you agree, and that’s as good a reason as any.

* * *

The first time you meet Saeran, you still don’t know his name.

You come home to shattering glass, to screaming, to curses. You come home to Rika bundled up in your thickest winter jacket and a pair of oven mitts, wearing boots on your clean floors. There’s a sudden crash and she lifts an arm against her face, shielding herself from the worst of the debris.

“Stop it,” she says, and she doesn’t shout but her voice cuts clear through all the noise. She is calmer than you think you’ve ever seen her. Detached. Unaffected.

You wish you could be, too.

Ray is standing on the balcony, one foot braced against the chair, panting, chest heaving, sweat running down his temples. There’s a look in his eyes that’s manic, that’s fevered and bright and dangerous and he’s stopped vocalizing, now, but you can still hear echoes that you’re afraid will never leave you. There is power there, and chaos, and an anger that burns hot and frantic and you don’t know where it came from or how to put it out.

Rika is still approaching, moving at a steady pace, determined. She has known him longer. She **has** to know what to do.

He looks down, like he’s considering, tipping the chair back and forth on its back legs. And then he looks up and gives it one swift kick, hard, sending it straight through the balcony door and glass rains down sharp and beautiful in a terrifying curtain. His expression doesn’t change as he stares her down. And then he throws back his head and laughs.

She steps up to him, not slowing once , barely sidestepping to avoid the chair as it had come through. Now she steps over the jagged edges of the door and the hem of your coat catches and she doesn’t flinch just lets it rip straight through and she hugs him. The back opens and you have the sudden irrational thought that the coat has been sliced cleanly down until she shifts and folds it around him, cocooning him, and you realize she was wearing it backwards.

She places one hand on his forehead, one at his neck and the whole time he does nothing but watch her and suddenly you can see it, a trembling and it looks like he’s _scared?_ and how could that be possible when he literally just tried to shower her in broken glass and she whispers, clear as day in the sudden quiet, “It’s time to sleep now, Saeran.”

And you barely have a moment to register the fact that you don’t know who the hell _that_ is because suddenly her thumb is pressing sharp into his skin and there’s no blood but you can hear a soft wheezing, and his eyes are fluttering, long, long lashes batting against his cheek and _this isn’t the time for that_ what is even going on? You’re spurred into motion, the door long shut behind you but your shoes still on, your jacket, your purse ( _you were frozen to the spot you didn’t understand what was happening you didn’t know you didn’t know_ ), letting glass crunch beneath your feet and you are careless because you are rushing, you catch your arm on the edge of the glass and it cuts and there’s blood and you think, dimly, that you’ll never be able to save this blouse before your hands are on Rika’s and you’re wrenching her away.

“What are you doing?”

She isn’t moved by your panic, by your incredulity. “He’s causing trouble. He needs to go to sleep.”

“Are you strangling him?”

“It’s closer to choking.” And that isn’t the answer that you want, and you would chase it but his eyes are already closed and you put your shaking fingers to his throat but you can’t be still enough to find a pulse.You can feel tears threatening at your eyes and you grab her hand, nearly slap it on his neck and ask her if he’s still alive.

“He’s fine,” she says gently, slowly, “just sleeping.” And she sounds so calm and so reassuring _Yes I know it’s scary, yes I know but I’ve dealt with this before it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay_ that you let yourself believe that it is. You both bundle him up in the jacket and carry him haphazardly into the bedroom (the only place that’s safely glass free), and then you sink to your haunches and breathe a shaky breath.

Rika is quiet, for a while, lets you have your moment. Lets you collect your thoughts and your breaths and your wits and when you finally look up lets you ask. “You called him Saeran.”

She nods. “That’s his name.” And you want more but she takes another, lingering look at the boy sleeping in the bed and then steps out.

You spend the rest of your evening together cleaning up the mess. You have to admit, he did an admirable job. There’s even glass beneath the couch cushions, which is some kind of feat and a very unpleasant surprise when you accidentally trip and your hand slips down there.

Your landlord stops by, later that night, to talk to you about the complaints that she’s gotten from the neighbours. One look at your tired face, at the blood on your sleeves, and you can see alarm and frantically tracking theories burning behind her eyes. She looks like she’s on the verge of calling the police, you must look a _sight_ , so you placate her with soothing nonsense, with _I’m so sorry, I’m so clumsy I was on the balcony and I tipped the chair over and fell through the door NO, no, no, no I’m okay, it’s really not that bad it was mostly the chair I just scratched myself a little, my friends were just over and they panicked when they heard it and then they saw the blood and they panicked some more I promise I’ll get the door fixed as soon as I can I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry._

She walks away not looking entirely convinced but she doesn’t look like she’s going to call the cops, either, and that’s a relief. She just mumbles something that sounds like concern, and you pretend not to notice the curtains shifting at your neighbour’s windows. You close the door, let your forehead fall on the cool wood, think of the noise and the violence and know if this ever happens again you’re probably going to be evicted.

In the corner of your living room, a large pot sits, shattered, the flower within it crushed by the weight of its destruction.

* * *

He is soft. That’s what you think of most, when you’re curled in bed together, when he has an arm draped around you and you lie half awake, curling your fingers idly in his hair. Some nights he sleeps so light that shifting lifts him straight out of slumber, and you feel so bad you slip in with Rika instead. Some nights are deeper, heavier, sleep a weighted shroud that covers him so completely you don’t think he would wake even if the room was on fire.

You place a hand on his chest, feel his heart beating beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. You remember being kept in a room, pink and beautiful and filled with fresh flowers every day. You remember being lonely.

You look up and start. His eyes are open, staring softly down at you and they’re not green at night, no, they’re something warmer, darker and . . . He cups a hand behind your head, brings you into him, softly, kisses you at the temple. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs in your hair, and you are so close now you can hear his pulse in your ear, pressed soft against his skin. His arms encircle you, cage you and you don’t feel trapped. Something else. Safe.

You remember that he was lonely too.

* * *

 

 

When she is bright, she is so bright.

You can see how dangerous it is, the addiction. How wonderful it is to bask in the light from the glow of her affection. You think of the myriad followers milling about in dark robes. How easy, it must have been, to slip into her orbit. You laugh and cook and dance together and your small apartment feels cozy.

She bakes sometimes and doesn’t burn a single thing. “I used to love baking,” she tells you, and you smile and swipe a finger’s worth of icing. She laughs and smears messy hands on your face and you look her in the eyes and say thank you. Everything she bakes tastes delicious.

And you forget, for a little while.

But when she is dark, she is so dark.

There is anger that bubbles to the surface with no trigger you can name. Eyes grow heavy and piercing and aloof and you can feel the tremors in the air like a storm cloud about to break. Her words are soft and low and toxic, hisses that crawl underneath your skin and bury themselves in your bones. She doesn’t throw things, doesn’t strike out, but the poison that she breathes into the air chokes you and makes it hard to see.

“You’re trying to trick me!” she accuses once, and she fists the fabric over her heart so tightly it will never fit the same again. “All these sweet words, all this kindness. You pretend to be so good but I know you better than that.” She steps close, so close so fast that you don’t even think to move. Her breath ghosts against the shell of your ear and she flicks it lightly with her tongue. “You’re just trying to get me to come close enough to the Sun that I’ll be burned away.”

You want to protest, to hug her in your arms but she darts out, recoils from your touch so obvious and affected that you can feel it like a knife. And you think, briefly, bitterly, that maybe stabbing the flesh is only a natural progression from this and you have never felt so cold before in your life. The thought flashes out but the image stays, leaves guilt and disgust trailing in its wake. You can’t even look at her, after that.

She laughs hysterical and cold when you retreat.

This is not her worst night.

Afterwards she’s sorry, she’s so, so contrite, and please forgive her she didn’t mean any of it and you don’t know if that’s true.

And even then, _even then_ , you can handle the anger but you can’t heal the sadness. On some days, you can see how dark and deep it really is, and you’re afraid a single misstep will leave you drowning with her.

* * *

 

Nothing feels different, when you step inside. He comes to greet you at the door, takes your purse, kisses your cheek. These movements are natural, easy, like a dance you’ve danced together a hundred times or more.

“How was your day?” he asks, and you smile and say, “Good. How are your flowers?”

“Growing. They’ll bloom soon, do you want to see?” You can see pride at the edges of his eyes and you nod, yes please, and follow him to the balcony. He carefully, bashfully pries the wooden board away, slides the broken door to the side and goes to half-lean, half-sit on the iron table.

You step carefully onto the tile, tilt your head over the boxes, pretend to thoroughly scrutinize the buds. You’re silent for a few minutes, even though you can hear him shifting nervously behind you after one. When you can hear him open his mouth, take a deep breath, you turn with your most dazzling smile and say, “They’ve gotten so big! I can’t wait to see them when they bloom.”

He falters, mouth snapping shut, and his face blooms pink more beautifully than any flower could. Then, “It should only be another week or two.”

“Really?” you ask, turning to stroke a stem gently. “I’m impressed. You take such good care of them.”

He’s pleased, you can tell without even looking, and you’re about to step closer when you hear it. There’s a strange, soft, breathy sound and you can’t tell where it’s coming from. You frown, confused, and look up at him. “What was that?”

He shakes his head but he looks somber.

You hear it, again, just as faint but a little longer. He looks down at the ground and you glance into the apartment behind you. “Where’s Rika?”

You find her in the closet of the bedroom. He hadn’t known but he could make a fairly educated guess. He won’t go with you. _She doesn’t like it when we see._

The lights are off, and you stumble in, hand slapping the light switch loud and sharp. The door to the closet is closed tightly, firmly, (impressively since there are no handles on the inside). But you can hear her. The soft sounds are only slightly louder here, and you step closer, hesitant, hand on the doorknob but you don’t pull it open. You can feel your conviction slowly seeping out of you the longer you stand there, and _what’s wrong with you, she needs you!_ before you can walk away you pull the door open.

She’s pushed in back with all your longest dresses, legs curled and hands covering her face and her body is shaking so violently you’re shocked that you hadn’t heard her the moment you’d come home. You unwisely drop to your knees and you can feel the shock travel up your legs but you crawl forwards and ignore the pain. “Rika?” you say softly, and you reach a tentative hand but before you can touch her she looks up.

Her face is so wet it glistens, and her hands are so full of tears you think she could have drowned herself if she wanted. But it’s her eyes that are the worst. They look desperate, desolate, empty, and you can feel yourself being drawn in despite the coldness in your chest. “Rika what’s wrong?” you ask, but this only sets off another round of horrifying, silent wailing.

You push into the closet with her and gather her in your arms, tug her close and stroke her hair and let her soak your blouse to sheerness. She weeps and sobs and shakes so hard you can feel it in your bones, in the shifting of your skirt, in the rash you’re developing on the backs of your legs. She is so quiet and so, desperately, _sad_ you can feel your heart breaking with every shuddering breath she takes. It feels like hours before she’s done.

Her throat is so hoarse from crying she can’t make a sound. You gather her in your arms, take her to your bed, bundle her in blankets. She takes your hand as she turns; she can’t say it but you know she’s asking you not to leave. You pat her hand, hesitant, and you’re about to call out when he walks in with a tall glass of water and a fresh mug of ginger tea. He puts it on the nightstand and neither look the other in the face.

You stroke your hand along his shoulder in silent thanks and he nods, but he won’t look at you either. Instead he walks purposefully away, and shuts the door behind him.

There is something there, something fragile and confusing and nervous, but Rika needs you more than you need to know, so you crawl into bed with her and let her lay her head on your shoulder and stroke her hair as she sips timidly at the glass. You want to know what’s wrong and you’re ashamed but you’re afraid to ask. Instead you say, “Is there anything I can do to help?” and she nods and tucks herself more securely against you and you hold her as she slips away to sleep.

And this is the easiest of her sadness.

It gets worse, and worse. So sporadically that you start to feel the strain of suspense living in you, gripping your hands even on happy days. You wander when you come home and they aren’t both there to greet you, checking all the rooms and closets and even once under the dining room table, feeling so anxious and afraid you didn’t bother feeling foolish.

You didn’t say a thing about it even after they came home, hands heavy with groceries. Instead, you help them pack things away and talk about how nice the weather is and pretend that you aren’t living at the edges of your nerve.

You do not think about these habits. They are there and they are helpful and you have never needed them before. Never been so unsure and afraid and worried in your entire life. You do not think about the fact that your heart skips a beat when they aren’t at the door, that your breaths quicken when the rooms are empty, that your nails dig sharp crescents into your palm when you don’t know where they are. You do not really think about yourself at all.

And then one day you come home and he is listening at the door and he won’t go in or say a word but the look on his face speaks volumes. He places a finger to his lips and you quiet. You tiptoe softly over and at his urging put your ear against the wood. There is no crying today; no sound. Then, something scratching and a sharp hiss. You can feel your heart jump in your throat, and you wrench the door open, barely giving him enough time to duck away.

He doesn’t know how to watch her pain.

She doesn’t look up, curling into herself, barely dressed, but not before you see the red beading in lines at the tops of her thighs. You dive forwards, wrest her hands away from where they’re wrapped around her knees but you can’t find the blade. She looks at you with empty eyes and they are so _full_ so wet and shining and there are tears even now, coursing down her cheeks but all she does is give a short, sharp laugh when you grip her wrists and ask her what she’s doing. There is something like defiance in the set of her brows. You want to shake her, you want to plead, _anything,_ but you don’t know what to do. This is the first time you’ve seen her that she doesn’t want to be saved.

You try to pull her up but she twists, violently, and the both of you sprawl back on the closet floor. The hardwood knocks the air out of you in a huff, jars one elbow and you feel something sharp and warm and _perfect,_ you’ve found her blades. They aren’t deep cuts but the line along your palm bleeds, freely, and the blood smears on the line of her panties as you sweep the razors away.

She jolts, throws an arm around your shoulder and shoves you backwards. “What do you think you’re doing?” She’s crying but it sounds almost like a scream: high pitched and unnatural. You nearly choke on your frustration. “What are **you** doing!” It’s an accusation, not a question. She doesn’t even look at you before she dives for the tiny metal pieces, blood smearing on her leg and rubbing down your front.

You tackle her in the opposite direction, and she _really_ sees you then. Her mouth goes hard, frowning deep, and you can see something dangerous lurking in her eyes and she raises a hand but. You roll her over, then climb on top, knees pinning her shoulders. Her free hands reach up, clawing, nails raking down your skin and you’re bleeding but you barely even notice, fighting to get her wrists and once you do, the fight goes out of her all at once. Tears pool in her eyes and her lower lip wobbles precipitous, and then she’s sobbing all over again.

And you’re so mad, you’re so upset, you’re so lost and helpless and you’re crying too but you’re afraid to get up, to let her go, she’s never hurt herself before, not like this. _(But what if she has, what if she already has, what if she’s been doing it all along and you’ve just never really noticed)_. You want to sob and you can feel your shoulders shaking, can barely see your tears falling on her chest, tracing the curve of her before disappearing to pool in the center gore of her bra. _I want to help, I want to, I want to, but I don’t know how._

You cannot heal them with love alone.

He comes in while you’ve still got her pinned down, even if your grip on her wrists is slipping. He pulls you up, gentle, and you can see bruises on her shoulder where you’d been pressing down and you cry even harder. He grabs a sweater from your closet (something dark and warm and long) and pulls it over her head as she sits up. He still won’t look her in the face, but this is something. Right now, this is everything.

You both move her to the couch, settle her in the middle with a blanket around her shoulders while he goes off to make her tea. _He really makes the best tea._ You sit on the couch with her, not touching, not moving, not speaking. When he comes back with the mug, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he lights a kiss on your head, whispers _Are you okay_ and you don’t say a word but you squeeze his hand, once, and for now that can be enough. He sits on her other side, grabs the remote, puts something on the television soft and low.

You have never had a day this bad. _And one day, it might be both._

After a while you can see her head nodding, and he lets her fall asleep on his shoulder, her hair still damp. You give him a look, so, so grateful, before standing up and wandering into you bedroom. You can see the appeal, now, opening the closet doors and crawling into the darkness. Wouldn’t it be nice to disappear, just for a little while? Tears are gathering in your eyes again, damp pooling on your cheeks and your breaths are getting shaky and you can’t do this, you _can’t_ it’s so hard you can’t do this anymore.

You open up your phone and call Jumin, sobbing through your words. He’s immediately attentive, concerned, and shame bleeds through you at being the one to drop this unexpected bomb in his lap. But you need help. You have let this go on for too long, too complacent in your quiet lives to immediately seek the help you knew was necessary. So greedy, so ready to take back the uncomplicated life you’d lived before. _Is this how it happens,_ you think blearily, face wet. _How you let yourself believe that you can help them on your own. How you hold on to your love and think that you can cure them if you’re good enough. Pure enough. Strong enough._ You think of V, again, and it’s more than the fleeting pang that normally visits you in passing. You think of him and his kind face and his bleeding heart and you can sort of understand. He is strong but foolish, and maybe being weak is the only thing that can save you now.

You clutch your phone tighter, work past a sob and say, “Jumin, I need help.”

You’d forgotten; there is no going back. 

* * *

You wake with the early morning sun on your face, tear streaked cheeks pressed against the seat of the sofa. Rika is curled above you, hands fisted tight in her lap. You squint against the light, take in the mess of cushions on the floor, the afghan pooled in your lap. The blanket is still pulled around Rika’s shoulders.

You can hear Ray or Saeran, you aren’t sure who, shuffling outside on the curtained balcony. The breeze catches the fabric on the broken glass of the door.

You look at your apartment and for the first time, it feels claustrophobic.


	4. Chapter 4

It had taken so much explaining.

When you had called Jumin it had taken nearly five minutes for your words to settle around your crying into something comprehensible. Even after that, you had so clearly been a wreck that he had arranged to meet with you the next day (panicked by your distress). A long black car had pulled up at your apartment building and an older gentleman with kind eyes had ferried you to an impossibly elegant looking restaurant, and you had been too tired, even then, to panic about how absurdly under-dressed you were.

Seeing his face again for the first time in ten weeks had nearly made you cry with relief. (He did not meet this obvious over-abundance of emotion with enthusiasm.)

“I will have to insist that Luciel do a background check. Just for security purposes,” he’d stated, a clear requisite to his assistance.

You’d frowned and fiddled with the napkin in your lap, fully aware of your outrageous imposition but still too defiant to break his gaze. “I refuse.”

He’d sighed, and broken first, glancing down to cut his steak. “This is one of my conditions.” When you didn’t respond, he sighed again. “Look at yourself. You clearly haven’t been sleeping well; I could see the circles under your eyes when you walked into the restaurant. Your hair looks duller and you’ve lost 3.37 kilograms in weight.” You bristled but remained silent, and he finally looked up and said, “This is about your safety. I’m concerned for you.”

And _oh_. It had been such a long time since you’d heard those words that silent tears actually did begin to fall, dropping heavy into the linen bunched between your fingers. You could have laughed, he’d looked so alarmed.

“Thank you.” A deep, steadying breath. “But I can’t accept those terms. He brought a full, tactical, _team_ to Mint Eye and he was obsessed with the hacker for so long . . . He’s not dangerous, I promise you. Not to you, or to the RFA, at the very least. He’s just been living with so much tragedy and abuse for _so long_ , and I don’t know what was in those elixirs,” (waving a hand to quiet him, since it looked like he was more than willing to go into full detail), “but he’s been drugged for a long time too. The danger is only a product of awful conditions. He just needs _help_. And I can’t do it on my own.”

He stared down at the red wine swirling in his glass. “You intend to continue with this current arrangement.” Not a question.

“Yes.”

“And what if they need treatment more intensive than what you and your home can provide?”

You let out a long, shuddering breath. “Then that’s what they need. I won’t stand in the way of them getting better. But I won’t force them to be checked into some institution and forgotten about.”

“But you won’t argue if the doctors do not sincerely believe there is another way.”

You thought of how small your apartment really was, of how proud you’d been to share it. Of cake and hot chocolate and a tattered afghan. Of a broken flower pot, a broken door, broken skin. And repeated yourself. “I will not stand in the way of them getting better.”

He nodded. “And you are refusing to allow a background check?”

You glanced down, hands still worrying at the fabric, too much noise in your head for them to find stillness. “I can’t actually stop you. But please, don’t get Luciel to do it. Don’t tell him. And I know this is asking a lot, for you to keep this secret for me when I’m already asking you for so, _so_ much but. If you could get someone else to do it. Someone that you trust, someone discrete. He doesn’t need to be punished, he needs help.”

“And what about Rika?”

You looked up, confused. “She needs help too. I thought—”

“I am fully intending to help both of them get treatment. But are you, too, going to have her die?”

You shook your head. “She’s not a secret. You can tell the members that she’s with me.” You laugh, almost, but there’s no breath in your lungs. “I never meant to make secrets. But there was so much pain, and hurt, and distrust, and V had just gotten out of the _hospital_ , where she’d put him . . .”

“You didn’t think they would agree with your taking her in.”

You nodded, mute.

“Did you consider that they might have valid reasons, for that?”

“I will not abandon her,” you said, and your conviction was steel. He looked at you appraising, then said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I will help you.”

* * *

 

Her memories of therapy are not good ones.

“I can’t go back!” she says, and her voice isn’t loud but it still feels like yelling. “This is how it got me, in the beginning. How I first started to drown in my darkness.”

You shake your head. “They could have helped. They got you to the edge and they could have gotten you across the chasm too, but you never took their hand. You ended up slipping slowly over because you were so close and you didn’t know how to back away.”

“You don’t know!” She says, and it’s more not-screaming in that low tone of voice. “You don’t know it would have helped! Maybe I was always going to come out on the other side like this!”

“You’re right,” you say, soft. Quiet. “But you don’t know that you would have. All I’m asking for is for you to give it a chance.”

Her posture grows stiffer, you can feel her — getting farther and farther away, more isolated, more distrustful, more afraid — and you want to reach out but she jerks backwards and you don’t know how much more of this dance you can take. You drop your hand, then your eyes, and thread your fingers tight together in your lap.

“I wish I was enough,” you say, and she cries and takes your shoulders and says “You are!” But tears course down your cheeks as you shake your head and disagree. “I’m not. I’m sorry, Rika, but I’m not.”

“I love you,” you tell her, and you pull her close and stroke her hair. “But I don’t want to drown too.”

* * *

 

The first day they had gone gloom had settled like miasma, colouring the air in the car you never drove, thickened by the mildew of the disused air conditioner. You could see the tension in your shoulders, hiked up three inches higher as if to shield your face from an unexpected blow. He sat beside you, quiet but not calm, his forehead pressed against the glass. Rika had elected to sit in the backseat, ignoring the door you had held open for her.

Halfway to the office, you had noticed that she’d disappeared from your rear view mirror and you’d swerved to the side of the road. Your passenger propped himself off the window, then immediately sank back against it as you pulled it over. Your fingers fumbled with the seat belt as you tried to unbuckle, ready to fling yourself into the back, never mind that you had never unlocked the doors, there was no way for her to have left — Your hand landed on one pale knee (probably too hard but she never cried out), tucked into the space behind the passenger seat. She didn’t look up, even at your obvious sigh of relief. You’d crawled backwards into your seat, too shaken to move forward for another five minutes. The blinking of your hazard signal beat in the corner of your eye so fast and bright you’d thought you might cry.

When you pulled into the parking lot your hands were still shaking, you could still the ghost of something bright and violent red in the corner of your eye. You hadn’t been able to persuade Rika to get on the seat, so you’d driven 10 kilometres below the speed limit and stuck to as many residential roads as possible. When you unlocked the doors, you could finally feel your jaw release.

He’d unfolded himself from the front seat, fragile and impossibly graceful as he opened the door for himself. The two of you stood apprehensively in front of the back door until you took a deep breath, steadied your shoulders, and opened it. She didn’t turn to look at you, but offered no resistance when you hiked your hands under her arms and pulled her out to standing.

The two of you shepherded her into the building, you with your touch and him with his presence. Then you released her into the care of the doctor.

Afterwards you sat in the too bright, too welcoming waiting room with him in the chair beside you. His usually calm nature was overcast with something dark and featureless. You let your head hang over your knees, utterly exhausted, unable to determine the whorls in the carpet were hypnotic and calming, or nauseatingly distressing. The hazard lights flashed irregularly in their centres, throbbing almost painfully. You considered standing, moving, anything to feel less trapped and restless when you looked up and suddenly, the person in the chair beside you was Rika.

How long had you been there? You felt that you’d only just sat, tension still living in your legs and arms and shoulders. You took a conscious breath and released it. Then you turned to the girl beside you, considered taking her hand but settling on the armrest instead. There was a sudden, overwhelming urge to ask her how she was feeling, how it had been, but every phrase you came up with felt empty and hollow in your head. “How much longer? For Ray’s session?”, you asked instead, (as if it needed clarification).

“Ray,” she echoed softly, and a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth that twisted her eyes into something painful. “Are we still calling him that?”

You’d stared at her, suddenly unsettled, but she only turned her head to the clock on the wall. “He’s almost done.”

Your hand lay, ignored, on the armrest between you.

 

The psychiatrist stopped you with a word when the doors opened. _He_ walked out, and he wasn’t avoiding your eyes but his gaze was uncommitted. Rika dropped back into her chair even as he elected to stand.

You’d followed them back into the room and the doctor had shut the door firmly behind you. You stood patiently, waiting.

“Are they family?” It wasn’t a question you’d expected. “Do you mean: are we related?”

The psychiatrist walked over to their desk, pulled out the expensive leather chair and took a seat. “Are any of you?”

“No, they . . . no.”

A glass on the table that you hadn’t noticed before caught your attention. Crystal cut and sparkling it looked more like an ornament than anything remotely usable. “You brought them.”

It wasn’t a question so you didn’t respond.

“Do you all live together?” The tone was neutral but you could sense the trap beneath it, barely attempting to disguise itself. You thought, briefly, of not answering, but this was a doctor, the _best_ if Jumin’s recommendations were anything to go by, so what was the point of lying? They were only trying to help.

The psychiatrist nodded. Then they opened the top drawer of their desk and offered you a chocolate, wrapped in gold foil. You took it, dumbfounded.

“Drive safely,” was offered up with a careful smile. And then, slick and deadly as a knife in the back, “You have my number. If you ever need to talk.”

You’d closed the door without looking back.

The drive back was tired, but not tense. Rika sat primly in the back, hands folded in her lap. He’d made motions towards the trunk after she’d settled, but you’d taken his hand and led him gently to the front. The car had roared to life in the quiet evening air and you’d wanted to hold his hand but there was something brittle there that had frightened you. You backed out of your spot and onto the road and tried to pretend you weren’t suddenly lonely.

* * *

 

“They love each other,” you say softly. You don’t meet his eyes.

“In the ways that they are familiar with love.” There’s a pause, a thoughtful stirring with a sterling silver spoon, embossed with what looks like a family crest. The fancy crystal glass remains on the corner of the desk, untouched. Empty. “They need distance.”

You can feel yourself blanch. “I’m not letting anyone take them.” The defiance is undercut by the tremble in your voice.

“Not from you. From each other.”

You twist your hands in your lap, make complicated motions with your fingers so you can pretend to be engaged. You cannot argue that. “What should I do?”

“There’s a choice—” You feel yourself getting prickly all over, your head shooting up before they’ve finished their sentence. They hold a hand up in mollification. “No one will force them. But I think it’s in their best interests if you’d at least help them think about it.”

The brochure you’re handed is glossy and professional, no pictures of smiling patients on the front to raise your defenses. “They wouldn’t go into the same program, of course. There are a multitude of facilities on the grounds and . . . they require different levels of care.”

“How long?” You ask, tucking the pamphlet under your arm. You aren’t ready to look at it yet.

“It’s difficult to say.” There’s a beat of silence. “It depends on the response to treatment of course. But Rika could leave in six weeks, provided she continues therapy sessions externally. Saeran however . . .” The doctor trailed off meaningfully.

“A few months?” Silence. “A year?”

The sympathetic look leveled at you leaves you feeling cold. The pictures are of a bright, clean building with good windows and good grounds, but you will not let him be swallowed by another institution. But having the two of them here, together. . . How badly is it affecting their recovery? Rika did so much, she _took_ so _much_. Even if (not if, _when_ ) she gets better, . . .

You think, not for the first time, of V. He shouldered so much on his own. You don’t agree with all of this methods, but you wonder what he would do now. The brochure is tucked into the pages of the book you brought, unsure how to pass the time. You are more conscious of its weight in your hands than ever before.

Rika is uncommonly chatty on the ride home, if not outright cheerful. The sunlight falls soft on her face as she leans against the window, her hair illuminated in a burnished gold halo around her face. You can see what kind of angel she must have looked like, before. The light rounds out her edges, removes the hard lines of her eyes, the dimple that casts her mouth in a naturally wry twist. You can imagine prostrating yourself at her feet and begging her to save you. Even her hands are wreathed in gold.

You don’t know how to broach the subject when you get home. The _click_ of the door opening seems somehow final. Lonely. You can feel something sad welling in your chest and you cross your arms as though that can keep your ribs from cracking, your chest from expanding as it becomes to much to hold in the cavity of your breast. 

Rika makes her way directly to the kitchen, making some vague noises about getting dinner started. He makes his way directly to the balcony, the door long since ‘mysteriously’ fixed the day after your meeting with Jumin. You still haven’t been able to prove a thing.

You follow him out. The air is clean and cool, and you stay just outside the door, breathing deeply. He doesn’t move from his position, leaning, arms draped on the only free space of railing not heavy with flower boxes. You are getting very used to the trend of people not facing you when you talk.

“When are we going?”

You can feel the pool in your chest, spiraling deeper. “I didn’t know you wanted to go.”

There’s a movement, and then a shock of bright teal blinks into your field of vision. It takes you a moment to realize what’s happened. It’s been so long since you’ve seen his eyes. “I didn’t think we had a choice.”

That feeling in your chest drills down, deeper, faster. You can feel your entire centre of gravity shifting. He’s facing you now so he sees it, is quick enough to catch you as you throw your arms around him. You’re too unbalanced to be careful, but he is solid beneath you. Your lips are right by his ear so you barely have to whisper, speaking softly. “It’s one thing if you want to go. But I would never let anyone take you away.”

He digs a hand, hesitant, into the small of your back, fists his fingers into the fabric of your sweater. You hold his head, his shoulders, firm against you but not unyielding. His heart is loud against your chest, and you feel the slow shuddering of his exhale, the breeze of it against your skin. He leans in, presses a kiss at the intersection of neck and collarbone, and you let him find purchase where you can.

* * *

 

He elects to go.

Your feelings about it are complicated. You’ve become used to the noise and the crowding. Your couch is perennially covered in a growth of mismatched blankets and pillows. A garden is blooming on your balcony, suspended six stories in the sky. The camellias are blooming vibrantly now. But you want him to get better. And you’re so, so, _proud_.

Rika is not as receptive. She freezes when you bring it up, a tangible reaction that turns her to a statue one muscle at a time. You can track it best in her face, in the way it migrates from the corners of her mouth to her cheeks to the edges of her eyes. The smile is the worst. It’s mismatched with the new hardness in her face, in the distance of her gaze. It looks like she’s wearing someone else’s lips, slapped haphazardly on like an afterthought. Her change of conversation starts so sudden you’re not sure you remembered to bring it up at all. She shifts so easy into another reality you’re shocked by the jump, suddenly transplanted into a brand new universe. You’re left feeling oddly off-balance, like you’ve stepped off the edge and you’re still waiting for a drop that’s never going to come.

You leave the brochure on the bed for when she retires. You know she sees it when she goes to sleep because when you pass by the door on your way to the kitchen that evening, you can hear quiet weeping. He’s already at the stove when you walk in, milk warming on the stove, when he catches sight of the look on your face. He doesn’t say a word, just comes to stand beside you while he waits. He makes you the hot chocolate in comforting silence, presses the mug in your hand with intent as gentle as a hug. Then he leaves, two more mugs in hand.

Rika’s eyes are red in the morning, but her face is clear. She gives you a tremulous smile and says, “I’m going too.” You nod and return her watery smile with something stronger; a mask against both the lumps in your throat and the relief in your chest. You all three sit together, gathered around a kitchen table that transformed from empty to too small to cozy, eat breakfast and laugh and leave your worries for the future in that distant place.

The doctor arranges everything. You don’t even have to pack.

The ride there is silent but loud. There is an energy so tight and nervous that your passengers stay still as statues in their seats. Unmoving and distant. Rika sits in the front this time, and when her hand twitches you reach over and take it. You let the warmth rest there even past uncomfortable, until you pull into the entrance.

The grounds are larger than they appeared in the picture. From the road it looks almost like it could be a university, until the drive reveals the uniform that betrays the institutionalized. You avert your gaze from the patients as you drive.

She turns and hugs you when you stop, not waiting to get out of the car. She doesn’t say good-bye.

He pitches forwards from the backseat, leaning so that his head comes beside yours. You turn to him and are met with a face full of downy white hair. You can see his roots growing in and you have a sudden, terrifying flash of picking him up, his hair grown back to its natural red. He finally turns to you and something breaks, quick and uneven, through the usual calm of his eyes. Rika has already disappeared inside. You’re about to say something, _anything_ , (but what, but _what?_ ) when he leans forward and gives you a quick kiss. “We’ll be okay. We’ll be better.” Then he jerks backwards and pulls open the door, and is gone.

You sit in stunned silence in your empty car. It wasn’t as though anyone had been talking on the drive up, but this silence is different. Dead. You consider following them in, checking things out, making sure they’ll be properly taken care of (as if they would be anything but, as if Jumin isn’t generous in the best and most terrible of ways), but you have a strange sense that you shouldn’t. As though if you don’t follow them in, don’t see them in this place, then everything can remain exactly as it’s always been. But the empty air contradicts you, even as you put the car back into drive and turn away.

You make it all the way home before you glance to the side to announce it. (You’d always loved the way _home_ looked on her: happy and just a little bit, _heartbreakingly_ surprised). But you are greeted with an empty chair and a view of the street beside you, instead of a gentle face wreathed in gold.

You manage to make it all the way to your front door before you burst into tears. Later, three or two or maybe five glasses of a wine you’d forgotten you had (from an office Christmas party two years ago), you pick up the phone and dial.

“Can we talk?”


End file.
